Holding Promises, sermon edition

The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, Rembrandt, 1627/28

(This sermon contains portions of a blog entry from 2005 that came in handy for writing a sermon two days after Christmas. During the preaching of the sermon, I sang the hymn that is quoted in italics.)

Luke 2: 22-40
******** Congregational Church, ******** CT
December 28, 2008

One of my pet-peeves is the saying "Children are our future". Bah, humbug! Ever since I gave birth to the first of two, I have known with all my heart, soul, mind, and especially body that children are our right now, this minute, can't wait any longer. Forget that Hallmark nonsense about today being a gift: that's why they call it the present. Usually, having children is nothing like a Hallmark card. If it were, they'd sell them ripped and torn, scrawled in crayon, with greasy fingerprints all over them, and when you opened it, an explosion of dirty laundry and the sound of milk bubbles being blown through a straw would greet you.

I can remember with great clarity when it was I knew I was a mother. You would think it might have been when I found out I was pregnant or the moment when I heard the cry of my firstborn. I was too much in joy and in love to be in reality, that wonderful mixture of light and darkness. No, it was after all the visitors had left, after my husband and I had settled into the double bed in our room at the hospital’s birth center with our daughter, after the three of us had fallen asleep. In the wee hours of the morning Andrea awoke crying, demanding attention. I came out of sleep in a post-birth fog, groggily realizing that a baby was crying: my baby! No nurse came to my rescue. My mother was asleep in the next room. My husband blissfully slept on. I went straight into mother-mode, finding a diaper and wipes, laying her on the changing table, unwrapping her swaddling blanket, and cooing to her. It was then that I knew I was a mother.

Before she was born, I was a pastor, a wife, a daughter, a friend. After, I was, and will be forever more, a mother. Her birth is one of the major pivots upon which my life turns. Both she and my younger daughter literally changed my life and how I live it. How much more so do our lives turn at the birth of Jesus? Before he was birthed into our lives, what we were we? What difference has the birth of Jesus made in our daily living? What changes have we made to adjust to this small, dependent ‘God with us’?

Author Caryll Houselander wrote, “By his own will Christ was dependent on Mary during Advent: he was absolutely helpless; he could go now where but where she chose to take him; he could not speak; her breathing was his breath; his heart beat in the beating of her heart. …Today Christ is dependent on us. This dependence of Christ lays a great trust upon us. … [We] must carry him in our hearts wherever he wants to go, and there are many places to which he may never go unless we take him.” We celebrate Christmas every year, not as a birthday party for one who really doesn’t need it, but as a very insistent reminder of this baby who needs us if he is to grow into this wisdom and strength.

Born in the night, Mary’s Child, a long way from your home;
Coming in need, Mary’s Child, born in a borrowed room.

The beauty of the Christmas story is that the One who set this universe and you and me in motion revealed the power of love in a vulnerable little baby (and thus every baby)--right now, this minute, can't wait any longer. We hope and pray that our children will take care of us when we are older, but we know the truth is that they saved us from the moment we knew they were on their way to us. And they save us each day of our lives. They save us from being self-absorbed, greedy, depressed, angry, and lonely. If nothing else, the Christmas story reminds us of this as we attend a birth in a mean and lowly place.

Clear shining light, Mary’s Child, your face lights up our way;
Light of the world, Mary’s Child, dawn on our shadowed day.

Christmas is a salvation story as much as Easter. In fact, the stories of Christmas come from the Easter story, from resurrection witnesses trying to make sense of who this Jesus was. If we are to understand Christmas and its meaning for us, we must read the Christmas story through the lens of death and resurrection.

As we read this morning toward the end of the birth story in the gospel of Luke, a priest named Simeon holds the baby Jesus in his arms and proclaims that he is now ready to die for he has seen the salvation of his people, the promise of God. Jesus hasn't done a thing but be born, yet he has saved this old man from despair that he may die in peace. Simeon also tells Mary that a sword would pierce her soul, flashing forward to the future we already know. Yet I would bet that Mary already knew about that sword the moment she looked into her son’s eyes, the moment any of us first looked into our children’s eyes.

Truth of our life, Mary’s Child, you tell us God is good;
Prove it is true, Mary’s Child, go to your cross of wood.

Early in my ministry I had a long talk with a Unitarian pastor about how the crucifixion was not a case of divine child abuse. I still believe that because I do not believe God sent Jesus to live on earth only to die like a criminal. I do not believe that God required the blood of his son to expiate our sins so that we might be forgiven. The whole of Jesus’ life illustrated in stark detail that relationship, justice for the poor, compassion for the stranger and healing for the despairing were God’s priorities, and it is through these that we are saved. These elements are present even at Jesus’ birth in the witness of the shepherds, the innkeeper’s hospitality in the stable, the rejoicing of Simeon and Anna in the temple, and Mary and Joseph keeping their faith tradition to pass on to their infant son.

If we are saved by Jesus’ death, it is that we see how the world behaves in the face of such unbridled, unlimited love, that innocence does not guarantee rights in the hands of the powerful, that love is more powerful than death, that life is not life if we have not love. The Christmas story, like the Easter story, is the story of love; not just any love but God’s love: love that keeps its promises. And ultimately it is this love that saves us from ourselves, from leaving a world to our children that is worse off than when we came into it.

The birth story of Jesus has the power to remind us of all the children who need saving right now, this minute, can't wait any longer: children being conscripted into armies; children orphaned by AIDS, war, floods, earthquakes, and the tsunami four years ago this past Friday; children sold into slavery and prostitution; children who need nutrition, health care, education, a home or a legal marriage for their same-sex parents. In short, children remind us that we are all worthy of love, simply because we draw breath.

What we don't realize is that the sword that pierced Mary’s soul will drive home its dual edge of pain and love into our souls as well. Our world needs to have its soul pierced, to see that we still practice child abuse of the worst kind—the kind we choose to be blind to.

We are our children's future. We are holding the promises we made to them when they were born. In our eyes they see their future. We are the ones who create policy, social structure, decide what is truly valuable and what is just dust in the wind. The trouble is, we spend more of our energy chasing after that wind than on what is right in front of us, right now, this minute, can't wait any longer. God is watching us but through the eyes, ears, hearts and minds of our children and they are taking copious notes.

Yes, there is great joy at Christmas, for God has kept a wonderful promise, but there is also a mandate from this poor, lonely manger. We are to keep our promises to the children of this world, preserving the world for our children, that we would also experience God’s salvation for us. And for this, we need Jesus—right now, this minute, can’t wait any longer—just as he is: tiny and helpless, ready to go wherever we might take him.

Hope of the world, Mary’s Child, you’re coming soon to reign;
King of the earth, Mary’s Child, walk in our streets again. (1)

Amen.


_______________________________________________

Notes

1. “Born in the Night, Mary’s Child”, Geoffrey Ainger, © 1964 Stainer & Bell, Ltd., printed in The New Century Hymnal, © 1995 The Pilgrim Press, Cleveland, OH.

Charlie Brown remix

Find more videos like this on Monroe Congregational Church Online Community

This is from Jazz Sunday at my church this fall. Listen at the end for a surprise theme added to the song. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, blogfriends!

How lovely are thy branches

One of my favorite things to do at Christmas, a tradition that I have held since I was a child, is to lay down near or under the decorated tree on Christmas Eve and look up through the lighted branches. Like looking up at an azure sky on clear summer day, I get lost in it: in its depths, its height, the twinkle of the lights, the quiet of the night.

Perhaps as a child I was imagining what it was like to be a present under the tree, waiting to be unwrapped, to give joy and surprise to someone. Maybe I imagined myself as Clara in The Nutcracker when the festive tree grows to accomodate a small army of mice.

Now it is a time of meditation and peace on a late, busy night when I am going back and forth to church to sing in the choir and playing Santa in between. And it really isn't Christmas until I have done this.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,

Your beauty green will teach me

That hope and love will ever be

The way to joy and peace for me.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,

Your beauty green will teach me.

What is your favorite Christmas tradition, one that you might celebrate alone?

To Tell The Truth

St. John the Baptist from the Isenheim Altarpiece, c. 1516

Isaiah 61: 1-4, 8-11; John 1: 6-9, 19-28
****** Congregational Church

December 14, 2008

Frank Abagnale Jr. was a confidence man, though you’d be a fool to place your confidence in him. He was an infamous forger and impostor of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, writing bad checks and posing as an airline pilot, a professor, a doctor and a lawyer. His story was the subject of the 2002 movie Catch Me If You Can, starring Leonardo DiCaprio. In 1977 he even guest-starred on the game show To Tell the Truth, where ironically two other contestants posed as Frank, while the celebrity panelists had to decide who was the real Frank Abagnale Jr. As was the custom, at the conclusion of the show, the host Garry Moore demanded “Will the real Frank Abagnale Jr. please stand up?”

However, in this morning’s gospel lesson we have Jesus’ authentic, honest-to-goodness confidence man of another kind, John the Baptizer. And the priests and Levites are playing the same game, except they want to know if John is the Messiah. They want the real Messiah to please stand up and make himself known to the authorities. John beats them to the punch by confessing that he is not the Messiah. The gospel writer has already beaten John to the point by telling us, the reader, that though John was not the light, John came to testify to the light, that true light which enlightens everyone, which was coming into the world.

You see, it had been a long time since the Jews living in Roman-occupied Judah had seen anyone resembling a prophet. The last time God’s people had been inspired to rise up against the powers that be was in the time of Judas Maccabee, in the 2nd century BCE. But first, a little backstory is necessary.

After returning from exile in Babylon, the Jews completed the construction of the Second Temple, near the end of the sixth century BCE but only one thing was missing: the Holy of Holies was empty. The Ark of the Covenant, containing the tablets of the Ten Commandments, had been destroyed in the devastation of the first temple. It was also believed that the Spirit of God was absent along with the heart of God’s law. Since prophecy—that is, telling the truth of God—depends on the Spirit—God’s living presence—prophecy in the land of Judah was at an all-time low.

Toward the end of the third century BCE the Seleucid king, Antiochus Epiphanes, conqueror of the eastern Mediterranean, set about Hellenizing his conquest, including modest little Judah. He constructed a gymnasium, where men competed in athletic games in the nude, something unknown to Judeans. Jews who were eager to comply with these Greek influences disguised their circumcision, often painfully. In truth, they disavowed the sign of the Covenant between them and God, that which gave them their identity as God’s people. Next, a Greek Acra was built, a center for military administration that towered over the Temple, a sure sign of what was to follow.

The final blow that sent Judas Maccabee and his followers into a rage-filled rebellion was a statue of Olympian Zeus set on the altar in the Second Temple, in an attempt to fill the Holy of Holies and to unite the Syrian occupation of Judah with its Jewish citizens. Judas, the ‘Hammer of God’, along with an army of thousands, crushed the Greek troops and sent the Hellenizing king and his forces back where they came from. The desecrated altar was demolished, removing the stones and leaving them in a place to await the coming of a prophet, which alas did not come. A new altar was built, the Holy of Holies was restored, the great menorah was lit, and a celebration was made for eight days: the Festival of Rededication or Hanukkah. (1)

So, approximately 150 years after Judas Maccabee, when John began his baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, he struck a deeply-felt chord in the hearts of his listeners, that perhaps the Spirit of God had returned to the people, that God’s living presence was again amongst them. Being as spiritually starved as they were, the religious authorities were sent to ascertain if John was the Messiah, the one who would save them from the oppression of the Roman Empire, the latest and the strongest in a string of empires that had occupied the land of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

The expectations of the people and of the religious authorities were high: with persecution and tribulation comes the great anticipation of redemption: Messiah? Elijah? Was John the prophet of the end times? John could have written his own ticket if he wished, but he was no impostor. John knew he could not have delivered what God’s people were seeking: salvation, light, truth: truth that would ultimately set them free. In his denial to the claim of Messiah, John gives us his most important message.

In difficult times, our expectations can also be high. We look to our lay-leaders and our pastors to provide the answers, the direction, the vision of our future, and to make sense of the present. Many in our nation and around the world are looking to President-elect Obama and his administration to rescue the United States from financial ruin and to restore our country’s place in the world as a leader among nations. A person in a position of power can fall prey to a kind of ‘messiah-worship’.

We also place high expectations on ourselves, in the Church and especially those outside the Church, who though not believing, do the work of Christ in making justice, creating peace, and performing kindness. We, too, can suffer under a sort of ‘messiah complex’, pretending to be something we’re not. Recently I saw a bumper sticker that said, “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”

Yes…and no.

Yes, each of us is a powerful, spiritual being. Yes, we who have been baptized have been baptized into a priesthood of believers. Yes, each of us has a calling, a vocation. Each moment, each day, each challenge, each experience has its own calling, its own vocation. Each lifetime has many pathways. But God is always one step ahead of us. The mystery of living and loving is still that: a mystery.

Even though we are called to do ‘messiah-work’—as Isaiah puts it, to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to declare the year of the Lord’s favor, and to comfort those who mourn—the good news is that we are not the Messiah. That is not our vocation. The position has already been filled, and by one more than amply qualified. We may reflect the light but Jesus is the doorway through which the light comes into the world.

But sometimes it can seem as though this light moves in and out of the world. And we are not a patient people, waiting for this Messiah, waiting for God to show up. Could it be that we are slow to recognize the Messiah because we are no longer in the wilderness places, where John’s voice cries out to us to make straight the way of the Lord? Could it be, that in our impatience, we have abandoned our post in the desert and our vocation, our calling to watch and to listen?

Strangely enough, all four gospels have John the Baptist misquote the passage from Isaiah 40. Earlier we read “A voice cries out in the wilderness”, but in the original passage it reads, “A voice cries out, ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God.’” God comes in the desert, in the wilderness, in the unlikeliest of places.

I do not think that this is a mistake or an accident. Of course I could be wrong, but it seems to me that in the lifetime of John, and in our lifetime as well, the people of God have managed to escape the wilderness of God. In John’s time, many of the Jewish faith behaved and looked more like Greeks, to fit in, to not be noticed, to fly under the Roman radar. In our post-modern, scientific age, we do not resemble a people waiting for a Messiah. In communities of faith we can still witness the struggle between independence and interdependence, between the self-determinism of the individual and what is just and best for all, between being in the world and being of the world.

Waiting for the Messiah can seem like waiting up for Santa Claus, except you have to be asleep for Santa to come. John’s crying out from the wilderness tells us that we have to be awake if we’re going to wait for Jesus. John’s voice calls out to us from the wilderness, those unlikely places that wake us and shake us up.

John’s vocation is our vocation. We’re not the Messiah, we’re not the prophets of old; we’re here to tell the truth. And the beginning of the truth is, often we don’t know who we are or what we’re supposed to do. That is the beginning of wisdom, when we allow ourselves to not have all the answers. We leave room for Jesus, the Messiah, to act, to lead, to transform; to whisper, to declare what will be our vocations, our callings.

When you discover your vocation, when you have a vision of that ‘one step ahead’, both as a person and as a community, you find your joy. Energy begins to flow forth. People discover gifts they didn’t think they had. New possibilities emerge that didn’t seem to be there before. Challenges that once seemed daunting and overwhelming are now confronted. The truth about ourselves, about this faith community, about the power of God, the saving grace of Christ, the very real life of the Spirit amongst us—all this truth comes to light when we allow the light of Christ to enlighten us and to then reflect it. We live out our joy.

So, ****** Congregational Church, what is the truth that needs to be told about this community of faith? What gives you joy, as an individual and as a community? Where is God calling you next? Toward what Advent adventure is the Spirit leading you? Where are you being ‘anointed’ to do great things for God and for the world? (2)

You are being called to be the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, in the unlikely places, to be the real ****** Church, to stand up and to tell the truth of God’s love made known to us in Jesus, the Messiah, the Christ, the ‘Anointed One’. How will you live out your calling? God will be with you as you seek to find your joy. Amen.


____________________________________________


Notes

1. Thomas Cahill, Desire of the Everlasting Hills. (New York: Doubleday, 1999), Chapter 1: “Greeks, Jews and Romans: The People Jesus Knew”.
2. Bruce G. Epperly, lectionary commentary from the Process and Faith website for Dec. 14, 2008.

Tsunami overload

(I wrote a letter to NPR today about something that has been bugging me for quite some time.)

Earlier today on Morning Edition, during a piece about post-bankruptcy Twinkies and Wonder Bread, a reporter used the word 'tsunami', as in "there was tsunami of information" or words to that effect. Christopher Shays also used 'tsunami' in reference to the outcome of his congressional race. Since when did 'tsunami' become an adjective or a metaphor? What happened to the use of great words like deluge, onslaught, or inundated, swamped? When I think of tsunami, I think of the horrible destruction and loss of life that took place 4 years ago this month. Would you think it appropriate and accurate to say that our nation was "9-11-ed" by the recent financial crisis? Or that the Detroit Three are handling their companies like a New Orleans levee? Words are important: they paint a picture, illuminate an image in ways that make an impact, especially on the radio. Choose them wisely.

The times--are they a'changin'?

Lately I've been thinking about change. And not just because of Obama. It seems we humans are either proactive or reactive when it comes to change--I know: "Duh!". But it's very hard for us to be proactive. We'd rather skate along, get by, until we are forced to do something. The levees in New Orleans, Bush in the White House until '08, the depletion of natural resources, global warming; the list goes on and on.

What worries me is that it will take a cataclysmic event for us to form actual communities, grow our own produce, generate our own energy, give generously, buy locally, topple corporations and the might of empire; in short, create an ever-expanding ring of care and love, revealing God among us. Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.

We've already had several of these events in recent years (and they're getting worse), but they really haven't made a dent in our global, or even national, behavior. Ironically, war once had the ability to make a sizeable cohesion in our consciousness: food and fuel were rationed, resources were pooled and materials recycled or reused, sacrifices were made not just by some but by everyone. Not once has our current president demanded that we reduce our fuel consumption or any kind of the endless consumption this country seems to be about. Yes, we were strongly urged, but as much as we are reactive to change, we are also resistant--we have to be told what to do and why.

Nobody likes being told what to do, but really, can we afford to be so tolerant, polite and reluctant anymore? Congress must work with President-elect Obama and work hard. Money spent on war and on keeping millionaires and billionaires afloat needs to be spent on the levees in New Orleans, on education and health care, on eradicating AIDS in Africa and around the world, on making food available for every person on this planet, on creating renewable energy sources and allowing forests and mountaintops to recover from humanity's rape of them, on ending terrorism by making amends for our dominating ways as an empire.

The American empire is a direct descendant of Rome and Caesar, hence, the antithesis of the kingdom of God, that Beloved Community for which Jesus was crucified. Telling people how to live and how to resist the ways of empire was what Jesus and the prophets were all about. There is a parallel here I'm not sure I want to be around for.

Still got a long way to go, baby

from USA Today, November 30, 2008:

"Women who take on tough issues and stake out new territory are often on the receiving end of ignorance."

--Benazir Bhutto to Hillary Clinton, commiserating on their mutual challenges as women leaders, as quoted in Clinton's 2003 memoir, Living History.

The big reveal

Ta-dah!! A big shout-out to Julie over at LonePrairie.net who designed my blog header! I saw her work over at Jan's place (I like a lot of what I see over at Jan's!), found her website, and she put together this new look for me. Unfortunately for the blogosphere, Julie won't be doing web design of this sort anymore. So head on over to her site to see her work, especially her watercolors.

New doubtfulness

Frida Kahlo, Tree of Hope, Keep Firm (1946)

"He who begins by loving Christianity better than truth will proceed by loving his own sect or church better than Christianity, and end in loving himself better than all."

--Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Aids to Reflection, Moral and Religious Aphorisms, XXIV.

By way of Jan over at Yearning for God, I've started reading Harold Loukes' The Quaker Contribution (see quote by Loukes on Jan's sidebar). The Quaker way fascinates me. I've been to one meeting with a former spiritual director who was a Quaker. The silence, the stillness, the absolute assurance of the presence of the Spirit within each worshipper was profound. After the service I confided to my friend that I thought of a particular hymn during the service and played it in my head as we sat in the meetinghouse. She cried with delight, "You could have stood and sung the hymn if you wished!" The outright joy and respect for each individual experience of God was palpable.

In his book Loukes quotes Robert Barclay's Apology for the true Christian Divinity (1676), then offers this reflection (the quotes are from Barclay):

"The significant phrase here is 'unwillingness to enter again into new doubtfulness': the reluctance to start again, experimentally, without certainties or comfort from the tradition.

"The Quaker theme is this extreme statement of the Reformation: that true religion consists not in certainty but in search, not old conviction but 'new doubtfulness'. In
the end there was a 'new certainty' to be discovered, but it was a certainty of a different kind from the old: no longer fixed and hardened into institutions and creeds, but infinitely more powerful because it reached the centre of human being.

"The Quaker story is thus the story of a group of people who trusted to the inward and rejected the outward."

It seems if we are to be honest about faith, we must keep a healthy balance of this 'new doubtfulness'. Faith is about "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen". Our experience of faith cannot be proven to another; the assurance, the conviction is ours alone. To keep our faith pliable and strong, it cannot be a fixed point. Nothing remains the same. We may long for the past but change keeps us moving toward a new day. In fact, change is the one constant (Octavia Butler in her book of fiction The Parable of the Sower created a whole philosophy based on God as Change). Behold, God is doing a new thing; do we perceive it?

On this first Sunday in Advent, we celebrate hope, which is to me is a mixture of faith and doubt. We see this especially in the reading from Isaiah 64, the longing for a God who appears to be absent, yet nonetheless the prophet cries out to this God. The tradition tells us that this longing was fulfilled not in the expectation of a divine rescue but in Jesus, born in poverty, by way of divine intervention in the creation of a human being. But what does our experience tell us now? What is our experience of Jesus? Of divine action in the human story? These questions beg of us a decrease of the ego and the mind, an increase in the imagination, in the capacity for mystery and for joy. The 'new doubtfulness' is meant to lead us to an authentic faith, not a pessimistic, jaundiced view of religious institutions.

In our longing for wholeness, in our search for the holy, in our 'new doubtfulness', may mercy and peace be our companions and may we know the almighty love with which we are already surrounded.

P.S. A link to an editorial by Leonard Pitts in the Miami Herald, posted on the blog The Quaker Agitator, that relates to this reflection. Thanks, Jan.

Thoughts for Thanksgiving

To speak gratitude is courteous and pleasant, to enact gratitude is generous and noble, but to live gratitude is to touch Heaven.

--Johannes A. Gaertner

As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.

--John F. Kennedy

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, "thank you," that would suffice.

--Meister Eckhart

Pedal power

from WNDU.com

Ft. Wayne, IN: The Embassy Festival of Trees offers a unique way to brighten up its newest attraction.

Visitors to the festival starting Wednesday evening will be able to create power for the lights on a Christmas tree by pedaling on a bike connected to a generator. The generator creates energy that goes into a power pack and lights the tree.

The power pack stores energy, but when it runs low, an alarm sounds indicating that more pedaling is needed.

Embassy Marketing Director Dana Poffenberger came up with the idea of installing an interactive alternative-energy tree. Its ornaments all are made from recycled or natural products.

--Maybe next year they could install one at Rockefeller Square. Gives a whole different twist to a bicycle for Christmas.

Stranger Stewardship

Matthew 25: 31-46
***** ******** Congregational Church
November 23, 2008

Today is Christ the King Sunday or Reign of Christ Sunday, the culmination of one year in the church and the close of one cycle of lectionary readings from the Bible. It is the last Sunday in the Christian year before the new year begins next Sunday on the first Sunday of Advent.

The gospel lesson for today, from Matthew, comes right at the end of Jesus’ ministry. He is in Jerusalem for the last time; soon he will gather with his disciples for a final Passover Seder. This is quite a juxtaposition: Jesus is near the end of his days this Sunday, speaking of when he will come in glory; next Sunday we will begin the wait for his birth in a lowly, ordinary place. Yet today we celebrate Christ as ruler of God’s kingdom.

But if Christ is king, where is his kingdom? If Christ is Lord, where is Christ being followed in ways that are saving the planet and its peoples? (1) In this morning’s gospel lesson we read that those who minister to ‘the least of these’, those who welcome the stranger, visit the sick and the imprisoned, who feed the hungry and give the thirsty water to drink, those who give as Jesus would give are the inhabitants of God’s kingdom, no matter what nation they come from. These are the ones who are following Jesus in ways that will save the planet and its peoples.

I’d like to tell you a story about where Christ is being followed in such a way. The story takes place in Oaxaca, Mexico; certainly a lowly, ordinary place if ever there was one. It begins in the summer of 2003 when Bryan Nurnberger, a young school teacher from Naugatuck, CT and a member of the Naugatuck Congregational Church, was rock-climbing his way around the mountains of central Mexico. After about a month of vacation, in his endlessly energetic way, he grew tired of what he was doing, needing a fresh challenge. A friend and fellow teacher told him about a woman who ran an orphanage outside of Oaxaca City in southern Mexico, called Casa Hogar. Bryan took a bus there, called the number he was given, and a pickup truck came to get him. It was late at night when he arrived and all the children were asleep. The next morning Bryan woke up and he was surrounded—by 80+ children.

These children were living in deplorable conditions. Many of them had special needs, most of them were malnourished; none of them had ever used a toothbrush. The majority of them were economic orphans whose family, single parent or grandparent could no longer afford to care for them. Some children had a parent who was incarcerated. Others suffered abuse from their families.

One such child was Ricardo, a 15-year-old boy with cerebral palsy. He would wear not only the same clothes for three days but also the same diaper. He and Bryan became friends, forming a connection that would change both their lives.

Once Bryan met these children, shared their lives, and got to know Carol and her husband Francisco who took care of children no one else would, he knew he had to do something to help. Upon returning to Connecticut, Bryan founded Simply Smiles, an organization dedicated to providing for the needs of impoverished people. He thought he could provide some food and necessities for the kids, maybe some support and awareness to put a band-aid on the problem. He didn’t intend that it would become his life’s work.

Now five years later, Ricardo has a new wheelchair. He eats three solid meals a day. He goes to a special needs private school. He had an operation so he could move his legs and his upper body more easily. All of the children of Casa Hogar go to school; all are well-nourished and much loved. There is also a second orphanage in the northern region of Oaxaca in Cuicatlan. Bryan and now a staff of co-workers and a board of directors for Simply Smiles organize church mission trips to Casa Hogar and raise funds and awareness. I, along with other adults and college students from Monroe Congregational Church went on our third mission trip to Casa Hogar this past summer. There is even a Silver Lake youth mission trip to Casa Hogar, now in its second year.

But what is truly remarkable is that the orphanage has its own mission: helping the resident worker families of the Oaxaca city dump. They are a close-knit community of 120 men, women, and children: families who live and work there, culling recyclable plastic bottles, tin cans, and cardboard from the mountains of garbage. They bundle up the collected materials, load it on trucks, and it is then sold to a Mexican mafia who pays them about 400 pesos (40 dollars) for the week's work: 10 pesos (1 dollar) per family. Some of their food they scavenge from their findings. They work from sunrise to sunset, in 80 degree heat, surrounded and permeated by the stench of rotting garbage. Imagine some of the worst stuff they could find, and they have found it and probably worse: medical waste, including syringes, dead animals, smells so bad they can be seen escaping from the just-ripped plastic bags.

Mitzi Garcia, whose family now has a new house.

It began by the children of Casa Hogar delivering lunches twice a week. Now that a trusting relationship has been built by Bryan, the children, and Simply Smiles, homes of dignity and comfort are being built for these families by church volunteers. And now that Casa Hogar is running so well, having its needs well-provided for, Bryan is searching for another orphanage that needs help.

Clearly, in the context of the gospel lesson, Bryan is a sheep: without thought to himself, he is one who has ministered to the least of these, members of Christ’s family. Usually when we read this story we wonder to ourselves: am I a sheep or a goat? But as is typical with the gospel, the lesson is not about us; it is about who we are in relationship to the gospel, the good news of the presence of Christ. The question before us is: Who are we in relationship to the Christ? Who are we in relationship to the stranger? Who is this church in relationship to the kingdom?

If the members of Christ’s family are the stranger, the poor, the hungry, the sick, the imprisoned, then the Reign of Christ is also the Reign of the Stranger. If Christ is Lord, then so too are the needs of the least of these. If we say that Christ has a claim upon our lives, then indeed we are declaring that the stranger has a claim upon our lives.

The timing of this reading from Matthew truly is remarkable. We are approaching Advent and Christmas, coming near to an obscure manger and a tiny baby. This baby reminds us that we were all babies once, every stranger we meet, every prisoner, every hungry, thirsty, needy person. Seeing the Christ in others requires a hefty exercise of our imaginations and our hearts. Like any parent who can still see the infant in their children’s eyes, no matter how much they change, Jesus compels us to know him so well, to love him so much, that we will know him in the breaking of bread with the hungry; in the pouring out of ourselves with those who thirst; in covering another’s shame with the dignity of authentic friendship; in the sacrifice of ease and time to visit with someone else’s child in prison; in welcoming the stranger not only with a handshake but with a willingness to be transformed.

The glorious throne of judgment and its attendant angels do not reside on high but are embedded in mean and humble places. This Christ who is Lord and King is an unprivileged servant-shepherd. When we look at our resources, where our money and our time goes, where they are spent and to whom they are given, do we see the Christ reflected there or do we see ourselves, our wants and desires?

In order that Christ be made visible in this world, we must become invisible. While the world beckons that we make a name for ourselves, Christ calls us to make known the needs of the stranger amongst us.

Nations, corporations, and those in power will be and are being judged for how resources are used: for the benefit of some or for the benefit of all, especially for the least of those among us? The changes that are being called for seem harder for some because for many years we have not been called upon to sacrifice our ease and prosperity for the sake of others.

This is where it begins, in communities of faith, where we can begin to make changes that can make a difference in the lives of others, by organizing our life together around the needs of the stranger, the outcast, the most needful.

I strongly recommend you, ***** ******** Congregational Church, to find a mission about which you can feel passionate, that captures your collective imagination. Form a connection and be willing to be transformed. Have carry-in dinners about the mission. Try to be hands-on with mission trips, if you can. Raise awareness and funds for the mission, endeavoring to include neighboring churches and community groups. Invite your Sunday School students to support a child of that mission and to learn of that child’s circumstances, exchanging news with one another. Include the mission in your prayers each week and in your own daily prayers.

We make a commitment of our time, our gifts and our money to the church that we might have pastoral staff to teach and to lead us, to challenge and to care for us, to have a church building in which to worship and to meet, and to educate our young people and to be educated Christians ourselves—all so that we can be the Body of Christ and then give it away to a world in need of healing.

The next time you meet, and whenever you meet, to discuss stewardship and your church budget, ask yourselves this question: “When was it that we saw you, Lord?” May your response lead you ever closer to being the Church, ever closer to Christ and his kingdom.

Amen.

_____________________________________________

Notes

1. Bruce G. Epperly, lectionary commentary from Process and Faith website.

All good

So often I begin the day in a state of neither-here-nor-there, allowing my circumstances, my chores, the unexpected, the plans, the anticipated joys to create my mood, my attitude, the lens through which I will view my life, my little corner of the world.

No wonder I get cranky.

It is better, I think (as if I'm the first person to ever think of this), to take a few moments and actually decide where I am standing. Not to take a side or a position, but to know, to create consciously that lens through which I will see every person, situation, every minute, grand actor in the drama of creation.

And to remind myself throughout the day that earlier I had decided that indeed, it is all good.

"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."

--Julian of Norwich, c. 1342-1416, English mystic and philosopher

Goating on the herd

...or what I'm doing instead of writing my sermon.

I didn't think this would be quite appropriate to post with my upcoming sermon on Matthew's 'sheep and goats', illustrated below in such a dark, humorous way. Perhaps one of these days I'll learn to write dark, humorous sermons...



When I was in "Godspell", playing one of the goats (shock!), I had a great line that I wish I could use in the sermon: "Aw, Jesus, if we had known it was you, we would have taken you out for a couple of LAMB CHOPS!"

Oh well, back to writing...

Thought for the day

“Everyday courage has few witnesses. But yours is no less noble because no drum beats for you and no crowds shout your name.”
-- Robert Louis Stevenson

"Subject, predicate...we get it!"

from The Huffington Post:

Obama's Use of Complete Sentences Stirs Controversy
by Andy Borowitz

In the first two weeks since the election, President-elect Barack Obama has broken with a tradition established over the past eight years through his controversial use of complete sentences, political observers say.

Millions of Americans who watched Mr. Obama's appearance on CBS's 60 Minutes on Sunday witnessed the president-elect's unorthodox verbal tick, which had Mr. Obama employing grammatically correct sentences virtually every time he opened his mouth.

But Mr. Obama's decision to use complete sentences in his public pronouncements carries with it certain risks, since after the last eight years many Americans may find his odd speaking style jarring.

According to presidential historian Davis Logsdon of the University of Minnesota, some Americans might find it "alienating" to have a president who speaks English as if it were his first language.

"Every time Obama opens his mouth, his subjects and verbs are in agreement," says Mr. Logsdon. "If he keeps it up, he is running the risk of sounding like an elitist."

The historian said that if Mr. Obama insists on using complete sentences in his speeches, the public may find itself saying, "Okay, subject, predicate, subject predicate -- we get it, stop showing off."

The president-elect's stubborn insistence on using complete sentences has already attracted a rebuke from one of his harshest critics, Gov. Sarah Palin of Alaska.

"Talking with complete sentences there and also too talking in a way that ordinary Americans like Joe the Plumber and Tito the Builder can't really do there, I think needing to do that isn't tapping into what Americans are needing also," she said.

Destined for Wholeness

Matthew 25: 14-30
****** Congregational Church
November 16, 2008

There has been much ado made about the recent presidential election and rightly so. The election of an African-American to the highest office in the nation is a turning point in United States history. Children of color will now say with not only hope but also with certitude that they could grow up to be president someday. But it is still one step among thousands in a universal civil rights march toward our country being a whole nation, a whole people; this world a global community.

Thirty years ago this month, Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man elected to public office, was assassinated, along with George Moscone, the mayor of San Francisco. In the 1970’s many psychiatrists still deemed homosexuality a mental illness. Harvey tried three times to get elected. He received numerous death threats as well as loud cheers of support.

People called Harvey a megalomaniac because he was always seeking attention and publicity. Harvey had a serious motive behind his seemingly self-centered behavior. He knew that to most folks, gays and lesbians were invisible, much like women, blacks, the disabled, those with mental illness, and other minorities were often treated and still are. So Harvey made himself as visible as possible. He wisely surmised that a paralyzing fear was the gay person’s worst enemy. Having an openly gay man elected to political office constituted real hope for those still wounded and in the closet.

Harvey Milk could have led a quiet, private life; there are some who wished he had. He was a native of Long Island, served in the Korean War, and returned to Manhattan to work as a Wall Street investment banker. In the imagery of the parable read for us this morning, he could have taken the riches of who he was and buried himself in a safe existence. Instead he invested himself in organizing minorities to become a majority, working with unions and disconnected ethnic and racial groups. In the few months he served as a city supervisor he helped to pass a city ordinance supporting equal rights for gays and lesbians in San Francisco.

Harvey also knew what he was getting into, that he was risking his life by serving so openly and so passionately in the public sphere. He thought of assassination as something he could not avoid. He even made a recording, a will shortly before his death, including the famous line: “If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door.”

In this morning’s gospel lesson we meet Jesus at such a point in his own life. He has lived openly and passionately for God’s kingdom, foretelling his death on numerous occasions. He is in Jerusalem for the last time. Soon he will gather with his disciples for a final Passover Seder. If there had been the same kind of publicity and media attention then as there is now, perhaps a reporter would have asked, “Jesus, any last words?” And with that, the reporter might have heard something like this:

“It’s like a man going off on an extended trip. He called his servants together and delegated responsibilities. To one he gave five thousand dollars, another two thousand, to a third one thousand, depending on their abilities. Then he left. Right off, the first servant went to work and doubled his master’s investment. The second did the same. But the man with the single thousand dug a hole and carefully buried his master’s money.
“After a long absence, the master of those three servants came back and settled up with them. The one given five thousand dollars showed him how he had doubled his investment. His master commended him: ‘Good work! You did your job well. From now on, be my partner.’
“The servant with the two thousand showed how he also had doubled his master’s investment. His master commended him: ‘Good work! You did your job well. From now on, be my partner.’
“The servant given one thousand said, ‘Master, I know you have high standards and hate careless ways, that you demand the best and make no allowances for error. I was afraid I might disappoint you, so I found a good hiding place and secured your money. Here it is, safe and sound down to the last cent.’
“The master was furious. ‘That’s a terrible way to live! It’s criminal to live cautiously like that! If you knew I was after the best, why did you do less than the least? The least you could have done would have been to invest the sum with the bankers, where at least I would have gotten a little interest.
“‘Take the thousand and give it to the one who risked the most. And get rid of this “play-it-safe” who won’t go out on a limb. Throw him out into utter darkness.'" (1)

First of all, let us remind ourselves that this story is not only about money. This is a parable, with meanings on many levels. Though the financial tumult of the last few months may tempt us to believe it would be better to bury our money rather than risk it in the stock market, I do not believe this is what this parable is about. Jesus has come to the end of his days; I think he might have something more valuable on his mind than money.

First, though, let us look at what a talent is and how much it is worth. A talent was the equivalent of 15 years wages for a day laborer, a denarius being the daily wage; therefore a talent was worth approximately 5,400 denari. Eugene Peterson in his paraphrase likened this to a thousand dollars, but let’s put this into today’s terms. The average low-wage immigrant worker in 2001 earned $14,400 for a year’s work; multiplied by 15 years equals $216,000. For the equivalent of five talents, 75 years of wages, that would be $1,080,000. These servants were being entrusted with an extravagant opportunity, more money than what they would see perhaps in a lifetime.

Having been given stewardship over so much—even the one talent was a great sum—we can understand the reaction of the third servant who buried his master’s wealth in a safe place. And we who follow Jesus can often confuse ourselves with the third servant, assuming that because we see ourselves as having little to give, that we must not have much ability, that we somehow have disappointed God, that God does not trust us.

But these are our self-imposed limitations, both on ourselves and on our view of God. We see ourselves in terms of what we lack, and this is a danger especially to small churches. Even though there is great blessing and generosity in this parable, it is still so easy to focus on only the warning. Even though we worship a God of love, grace, and forgiveness, still we often lead our lives and lead our community of faith in the shadow of a demanding, harsh, and fearsome god, consigning ourselves to a life lived in that same shadow, that utter darkness.

And then there is the long absence, the long time away of the Master. I can imagine that at times it has felt like a long time in this church: a long time of doing the work of ministry, often many tasks done by many of the same individuals: a long time since having an extended relationship with a settled pastor: a long time of having hopes deferred. That can wear on a congregation and on its individual members and leaders.

This is the true oppression under which we human beings can suffer. We allow our circumstances to become much like a closet in which we feel paralyzed, which becomes our greatest enemy. Everything that makes us unique and vibrant and full of life becomes invisible not only to others but also to ourselves.

But this is not our destiny. Like any parent who warns a child of consequences, what the parent truly desires for the child is the best of everything, which is wholeness: wholeness of trust, grace, compassion, purpose. And wholeness is most often found in community. Part of the third servant’s mistake was that he acted alone. The other two servants, in order to double the master’s investment, would have interacted with others in ways that brought risk but also great joy. In community we are called to come out of our closets of fear, and risk being visible by openly and freely sharing the riches God has given us.

What are those riches, those talents? Jesus is speaking here not of income or giftedness but of the gospel, that Good News of God’s radical, amazing, life-transforming love that has been lavished upon each one of us. God is ready to give to us, according to our ability to risk for the kingdom. Do you see yourselves as able or as less than able? Do you desire transformation of this faith community? That means that lives will be transformed as well. Are you ready for not only this church to be transformed but your very lives to be transformed as well? This is what it means to be open to the gospel and to share it freely and visibly with your neighbors.

There is no failure when it comes to sharing the gospel, the love of God. Mother Theresa once said, “The success of love is in the loving—it is not in the result of loving. Of course it is natural in love to want the best for the other person, but whether it turns out that way or not does not determine the value of what we have done.” The success of the gospel is in the living out of the gospel, in the sharing of it. The value of the gospel is determined by how we use it. Do we keep it safe, taking it out only on Sundays and in desperate situations or do we risk daily what it means to be a visible image of God?

Is this scary? You bet it is! To love is risky, to open ourselves and to open the gospel to others, not knowing the outcome or even being guaranteed an outcome, is risky. To have loved and been wounded again and again is difficult to recover from.

There is a powerful saying in Spanish about what to do with the troubles we experience, las cosas de la vida that we live through: Hacer de tripas corazón. Literally, it means ‘to make a heart of guts’. Feel the fear and do it anyway, which is really a definition of courage. Celebrate the life the gospel gives you and share it with others! Dream often together and dream big! Learn your strength! Eat your self-doubt for breakfast! Remember the power with which God has entrusted you! Bust out of your closet that you may be a visible Christian and a sign of hope for others still in darkness!

What great thing is God calling you toward today? What vision of your congregation’s future is luring your church forward? What limitations do you need to break out of both personally and congregationally in order to become God’s partners in healing the world? (2)

The invitation, the call is given: enter into the joy of the Lord, begin your joyous tasks, from now on be God’s partner. Transformation is upon you. Wholeness awaits you. Those still in darkness are on the lookout. The gospel beckons. God is ready. Are you?

Amen.

______________________________________________

Notes

1. Eugene Peterson, The Message (Colorado Springs, CO: NavPress, 2002), Matthew 25: 13-40.
2. Bruce G. Epperly, lectionary commentary on Process and Faith website.

Question of the day

How is it that we can put this country further into debt by bailing out Wall Street and Detroit (which has been deemed a sort of sick socialism) but we somehow "can't afford" universal health care?

Yes!!

Seen before but bears repeating:






This one brought tears to my eyes:

"...one as beautiful as you."

This past weekend my pastor and colleague, Pete Allen, and I led an adult education field trip into New York City to the Museum of Modern Art. One of the special exhibitions we saw was Van Gogh and the Colors of the Night (Click on this link to see a flash of the exhibit and the works mentioned). His famous painting, The Starry Night, used to be my favorite. But while viewing this exhibit I found others. Look at the colors of The Sower, the green of the sunset sky, the tree, the bowed figure. The Potato Eaters portrays Van Gogh's affection for those whose lives are rooted in the earth. Though the sunset in The Stevedores at Arles is beautiful, it would not be half the painting without the main characters in the foreground, even though they are in shadow.

My new favorite, however, is The Starry Night Over the Rhone: the way the light shimmers on the water, the stars shine above, the lovers below. I had no words save for a poem.

Van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhone

Engine of being,

that reserve of desire

to which the artist bends

is light, that blaze

so sweet--thus also

darkness, that slit into reality

through which he unleashes color,

shape, shadow and story.

Like a priest celebrating

a mystery, he holds, lifts

what is holy, gives thanks,

breaking it into a billion living stars

in a night sky shivering,

on a silent river unlocked,

above two lovers with little to regret.